Archive for the ‘dead’ Category

I recently received a response from a blog colleague who’s beliefs are different than mine. It is normal for people to have different views on things, and everyone’s views are welcome. This is my version of agreeing to disagree…

Dear 5KWD, I wonder if you would have any insight on the following. After doing a smattering of research I learned that virtually every mass shooter on record was taking antidepressant psychiatric drugs when they “went off”. The news media and many posting here are examining the mental illness angle, but we know that depression, asbergers, etc, does not cause homicidal behavior. However, it seems very plausible to me that these FDA approved psychiatric drugs, which have known side effects, may be inducing this behavior. I think it’s the drugs, not the mental illness. This makes way more sense to me than the idea that sometimes formerly quiet, law-abiding people are randomly “going off” and shooting rooms full of children. artandlifenotes.wordpress.com

I agree that every mass murderer may have been on antidepressants. It would go along with my theory that they have underlying psychiatric conditions. All of my adopted children are on psych meds. My oldest daughter has attention deficit disorder. Prior to medication, she couldn’t pay attention, she was flunking school, she couldn’t pay attention to read a book, and she developed sever anxiety over her inability to function “normally”. Once on medication, (which includes an antidepressant,) she brought her grades up to straight A’s, attended college, and has a career in her chosen field. I understand that some people would say that the side affects of medication would outweigh the benefits, she calls me from time to time to bring her medication to work because she forgot it, and she cannot concentrate to do her job. My middle son, who was born addicted to cocaine, has been diagnosed with a variety of mental illnesses, but I personally like to give him just one: his brain and wiring is screwed up due to his prenatal exposure to drugs. As an infant he would flail about and injure himself, he rarely slept, wouldn’t eat, and climbed out of his crib by 9 months old. (He couldn’t walk, but he could climb!) He would run around destroying anything in his path. Without psych meds, it would have been impossible for him to attend school because he surely would have climbed out the bus window! My youngest son, who was severely abused in his early childhood, has Dissociative Identity Disorder, (previously called Multiple Personality) a condition in which a child withdraws within himself/herself when abused, sort of “blacks out”, so to speak, but another part of the brain still feels the affects of abuse. That other part remains in his “psyche”. Hidden. Buried. Showing itself from time to time in an angry, violent outburst, often requiring hospitalization. Without psych meds, he would not be able to function as well as he does. He would be encompassed by deep depression and obsessive thoughts. My youngest daughter has severe attention deficit disorder, and cannot sit still or pay attention without medication. Similar to my youngest son, she was abused as a child. Her hidden demons come back in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, tearful, angry aggression, often on herself, but sometimes against others. Without psych meds, she would not be able to function. She still has PTSD and “episodes”, but they are far less frequent than when she was not on medication and it would be a daily thing.

I understand people have different opinions about psych meds, but in my family, without them, it would have been impossible for my children to live life “normally”. I know that there may be side affects, but the side affects are far less intrusive on their lives than their mental health issues. The doctor always goes over the possible side affects, and not a single child has ever indicated they bother them.

Regarding your concept of not believing the idea that sometimes formerly quiet, law-abiding people are randomly “going off” and shooting rooms full of children, again, I can only point to my own children. Childhood abuse, even verbal abuse, and non-loving parents, can permanently harm a child’s developing psyche. Permanently. Even counseling and medication may not be able to fully quiet the demons hidden in a child’s brain. My son, who is the sweetest, nicest, most generous boy, often displays his “angry part”, a part so vile and violent that it reminds me of Linda Blair in the Exorcist. He is unrecognizable and so angry that violence surrounds him…sometimes resulting in a call to 911 for assistance with restraining and hospitalization. For my daughter with PTSD, her episodes are more invasive. The slight touch, smell, or thought can cause her to fall back into anger of abuse, and she dissociates and becomes violent. She is not herself…well, that’s not true because even when she is having flashbacks she is herself, but the self as a young child being abused. Regarding the randomness of violence, case in point: she was recently arrested for “assaulting a police officer with a deadly weapon” when he charged towards her to get her to stop flailing about and screaming. (She ripped a board off the wall and tried to ward him off.) She is living in a restrictive, “locked” facility with staff trained in behavior modification and restraints, but her behavior has horrified and shocked them. It is not her fault, she cannot control it, but she is very violent. Other people looking at her would never think such a sweet, friendly child could harbor such demons.

I know many people not exposed to individuals who are mentally ill to the serious degree of my children would find it hard to believe they just “snapped”. No one never knows if a person who appears to be “normal and quiet” is really “normal and quiet” underneath. I believe wholeheartedly that one has to have a mental illness, even if undiagnosed, to be a mass murderer. I believe no one in his/her “right” mind could possibly do such a thing! Of course, this is just my one biased opinion. I can understand, though, that there are different sides to every story. Let’s just “agree to disagree”!

Like the rest of the nation, I have been saddened by the tragedy at the school in Connecticut. All of those poor children and adults who are dead. It is very mesmerizing for the nation, and feelings are raw, trying to find someone to blame to make sense of it all. People are blaming God.

I have learned in my own life that tragedies happen every day. Children are terminally ill. Children are struck by cars and killed. Parents abuse children beyond the scope of the normal imagination, (just ask my own beautiful children.) Tsunamis strike. Floods devastate. FAmines consumer whole countries. Earthquakes destroy communities and people. Murders and domestic abuse happens. I am sure that you can think of many, many more tragedies that have happened, and many more will. It is awful. It is saddening. It is unbelievable, and as humans we naturally look for someone to blame. Maybe there IS someone to blame in some circumstances, but God is not to blame. To attribute His involvement with us to cause every disaster is ludicrous. For which disasters should He take blame…natural ones? man-made ones? And how large of a disaster should he take blame? Where many people are killed? Where only one is killed? Where people are very ill and suffering? Where I get laid off from a job and have no money? Where I have blister on my big toe?

My point is, it is not God’s fault. We are placed on earth with our own free wills; on an earth that has always experienced natural disasters. We are actually lucky that we have not been wiped out completely by a wayward asteroid similar to the one that made the dinosaur distinct! But if we were to be destroyed, the ultimate tragedy, it would not be God’s fault. He loves us. We are all His children. He mourns when a child is severely hurt, a woman is a victim of domestic abuse, when houses and lives are destroyed by natural disasters, and when people are suffering. But if He were to intervene, then we would be but His puppets placed on this roller coaster of ride called earth. God may be Almighty, but that does not mean that he takes over for His children or his earthly creation. That would not fit the description of “life”.

Yes, I am greatly saddened by the Connecticut massacre. People may disagree with me vehemently, but I have empathy for the actions of the killer, who obviously was mentally ill. To have reached this stage of his life with such bad thoughts, (similar to the demons which cause violent actions from two of my own children,) is a also a tragedy. This incident took not only the lives of the children and adults murdered, but the life of a young man who will forever be vilified for his actions. It is a tragedy all around, and God is mourning with us.

I generally try to write upbeat posts…that with whatever difficulties we have, there is always something good to find. This post will be different than the rest…it will be about my younger brother’s death. It won’t be upbeat, but there is something good that has come out of it. I KNOW there is a heaven. Without a doubt. Proof positive.

My brother, for those who are unfamiliar with my “life story”, was born during the Rubella days. My mother somehow contracted German measles while she was pregnant with him and he was born legally blind, severely hearing impaired, (almost deaf by the time he died,) severely developmentally delayed, with a cleft palate. His life with us is what taught me such tolerance for individuals with disabilities. My brother was disabled, but he was a joy to be around. He had simple pleasures that made him smile, and to me, he life was as worthwhile as anyone else’s.

He was wholly incorporated into our family life and he did everything with us. When we traveled extensively, his favorite activity was paying the toll at the toll booth. My father would drive up to the booth so Curtis’ hand could reach the booth, and give him the money to put in. He took great joy in reaching out to feel the basket and put the money in. I swear my father always took the turnpikes with tolls solely so Curtis could have fun paying.

Around the time I grew up and got married, Curtis developed schizophrenia. The simple pleasures he had in life were replaced by demons and aliens telling him to do things. Curtis, ever the obedient soul, started to wander the streets in the middle of the night doing what these voices instructed, and there came a time when my parents had to place him in a group home. We were fortunate in the fact that it was a wonderful group home, full of caring staff, and they took excellent care of him. Every Saturday my mother, my kids and I would pick Curtis up and take him out for the day, usually to the mall to walk around. He loved malls, especially riding up and down the escalators and elevators. To be so joyful doing something so ordinary was one of his gifts.

My mother, who was very spiritual and had several supernatural experiences, passed away two years ago, in November. (Note a reblog I’ve attached following this one entitled Angels Among Us.) Although we missed her terribly, my children and I continued our outings with Curtis. All of my children loved him and would often argue who would sit next to him, or who would be his sighted guide. Their immediate, natural attachment to him amazed me given his severe disabilities and his disfigured head. (His head was flattened on the back and he had huge ears that stuck straight out to the side. My daughter who is deaf gave him the “sign” name, one that usually highlights a person’s individual characteristics, of Uncle Ears.)

We continued to take him out and he appeared to have his same zest for life until October of last year. All of a sudden, his skills began to decline. Numerous medical tests were done and he was determined to be perfectly healthy. At the mall, although he always had shuffled along when he walked, his shuffling turned to dragging his feet, then losing his balance, then having to use a wheelchair to get around. Again medical tests. No medical reason for his decline.

I remember guiltily the last time I took him to his favorite mall. He was in his wheelchair, but I left the footrests in the car, assuming he could pick his feet up or shuffle them along. I knew I was in trouble when I purchased his favorite ice cream with strawberry sauce. Because he had lost the ability to feed himself, I spoon fed it to him. He started to spit it out. He didn’t want it! His favorite thing to eat! I new I needed to get him to a hospital, but had to bring him back to the group home first because they had his medical records. When I tried to push the wheelchair, his feet stuck to the ground. He did not lift them or shuffle along. They just hung there. If I pushed it forward, his feet would get stuck under the wheelchair. With tears stinging my eyes, I did the only thing I could do to get him out of the mall. I turned around and pulled the wheelchair backwards. I could hear the thump thump thump of his feet on the ground and I started to cry in ernest. I had to pick him up to put him in my car, and he slumped over to the side with only the seatbelt keeping him from falling over. It was obvious he had declined to the point that neither I nor the group home could take care of him. We took him to the hospital where he was admitted and again found to have no medical problems so he was placed in a nursing home. It was difficult to find a nursing home that would take him due to his numerous scary diagnosis; deaf, blind, schizophrenic. He ended up in a less than perfect quality facility. Due to frequent attacks of anxiety, when I first visited him I found him in restraints and his hospital bed mattress on the floor. They were concerned that he would fall out of bed, so the had removed the actual bed and just left the mattress. He was alone, and a tray of food uneaten, (unseen by him) was in the corner of the room. They would come in and poke and prod him, give him medicine and needles, never treated him like a valuable human being. He could not hear what they would say, the needle would pinch him, a blood pressure cuff would take readings, the thermometer would be used to take his temperature, and all of this would come at him out of the darkness and he did not know what was going on. No wonder he was anxious!

Recognizing that with the swiftness of his decline he did not have much longer to live, I made the decision to stay with him at all times. I had to preserve his dignity. We had done all we could so he could live a happy, dignified life, I could not abandon him at the end of that life. With my being there, he no longer needed the restraints. My husband valiantly cared for all of the kiddos at home while I took care of my brother. I spent my days sitting in his private room trying to coax some food into him. When he wouldn’t eat the food they gave him, I would bring ice cream, pudding, applesauce and other things I knew he would like. I would lay on the floor next to him and rub his back or his arm, like we used to do. If he could not see or hear me, I am sure that he could tell by my touch that I was there.

Within a week, we knew that he was fading away quickly. My brother, who despite his disabilities had been as healthy as a horse his whole life, was dying and there was no medical reason for it. Then I learned the reason; on his last night, while I was rubbing his arm, he turned to me, opened his eyes so wide it seemed as though he could see me, and he said plain as day, without the almost unintelligible garbled speech he used to have, “Mom is calling for me. I will be going to heaven soon.” Then he shut his eyes and never opened them again. He died exactly one year to the date as my mother.

Yes, there is a heaven. I know because my brother told me.

For those who might want to read more about my incredible family, the e-book The Apple Tree: Raising 5 Kids with Disabilities and Remaining Sane is available on Barnes and Noble, Amazon and I-Books.

My mother passed away several months ago and it has taken me this long to write about it. She was the most wonderful mother in the whole world, (and I am not just saying that because that is what one is expected to say about their deceased mother.) In addition to being kind and loving, she was also very spiritual.

I remember when I was four years old and we lived in Opalaka, Florida, right behind the Hialeah Race Track. We had a cement swimming pool in the backyard which my father built, and next to it was a palm tree my mother had planted crooked so it was growing sideways. I had a green parakeet whose name I certainly don’t remember, and I loved watching Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo on our little black and white tv with the rabbit ears antenna. My brother was born one day in March, and life suddenly changed for our family. My brother was born with serious disabilities due to Rubella Syndrome, (supposedly my mother had been exposed to someone with German Measles.) With a cleft palate, he could not nurse or drink from a bottle, so he was fed by a large eye dropper. He could not such on a pacifier and he cried constantly. He was blind and deaf and was obviously going to be severely developmentally delayed. My joyful childhood was suddenly overshadowed by a sadness of which I had never seen from my mother. I would witness her throw herself across her bed and sob. A deep sadness enveloped our family. I looked at my little brother, who looked so innocent and little to cause such a fuss.

One day, when the sun was shining brightly and Curtis was asleep, my mother called to me to come sit in the rocking chair with her. She squeezed me and held onto me tightly, rocking and crying. It was a different kind of crying, though. A happy cry, if I could describe it as such. From that day on, the gloom lifted from our house and I went back to living my happy childhood with my new baby brother.

Many years later, when I was a young teenager, my mother shared her experience of what happened to her that very day. The doctors had been encouraging her to put my brother “away”, institutionalize him as was the custom in those days. “Forget about him,” they said, “You can have another child.” She could not bear to make the thought of doing this. Then, on that sunny day while rocking in her chair, she told me she was visited by an Angel, a beautiful, bright white Angel. She told me she could feel the weight of the Angel’s hand on her shoulder, reassuring her that everything was going to be okay. Although the Angel did not speak, she knew what the message was. She did not have to worry anymore, her son would be fine, and he was. He wasn’t fine in that he suddenly became perfectly healthy, but he was fine in that he has led a happy, fulfilling life. Clearly, she had been touched by something spiritual on that day to turn her torrents of tears into smiles of joy over her new baby.

Several years later, while camping high in the mountains, my mother woke up from her sleep and sat up in her sleeping bag. She was joyous! She told me she had been to see God, whom she described as a bright and beautiful. She said it felt real, not like a dream at all. She was confused as to the experience because it seemed as though she was there to help a friend pass over into heaven. She did not understand because of course her friend was healthy. It was not until we returned home from vacation that she learned that this friend had died from a brain aneurysm on that very night at that very time.

My mother lived a life of great happiness and contentment, always seeing the good in people. Near the end, right before she died, I stayed with her 24 hours a day. When we knew death was near, the nurses let me lie in bed with her and she passed away in my arms. I don’t know what I expected when she died. No…that’s not true…I expected to see some of what she had experienced! I expected to see her pass into heaven! I expected there to be some reaction from her body, some knowledge that her lifetime of spirituality would somehow, through osmosis, pass through to me. But there was nothing. She just stopped breathing. And there was nothing.

It took me a while to accept her death, and I became angry that there was no sign from God that she was with him. Realistically I knew this was silly, but I was hugely disappointed.

Christmas time came soon afterwards. As the parent of 5 children, I had this habit when the children were younger of taking a picture of their sleeping faces on Christmas eve. As they aged, they hated the existence of these pictures! (They were usually sucking on a “binky” at the time and girlfriends and boyfriends who saw the pictures in old photo albums would always go “Awwwwwwwwwwww, how CUTE,” the most mortifying thing that could happen to a teenage macho boy!) This Christmas eve, filled with nostalgia, emptiness and sadness, I again went into each of their bedrooms and gazed at their sleeping faces. I was suddenly filled with a great sense of purpose and contentment, much like the type of contentment my mother might have felt when she felt the Angel’s hand upon her shoulder. These were MY Angels. These were my children who had endured so much when younger, either with their disabilities or with indescribable child abuse. They have not only survived, but they have THRIVED. They are happy and loving and successful and they have bright futures as adults. This is miraculous to me!

My father was an artist/architect/carver. He designed beautiful buildings that to this day are still city centerpieces, painted flattering portraits that still hang proudly in people’s homes, and carved a large variety of creative items. His favorite, and my mom’s least favorite, was a statue of a Tiki god. A squat, dark man with wild pointy hair, red eyes and a huge, pure white, toothy grin that was almost as big as the body itself. My mother said it looked evil and it gave her the creeps. My dad proudly sat it on the fireplace mantel “for good luck”, he said.

Shortly after he placed the statue there, he fell down the basement stairs and broke his leg badly in three places. He recuperated slowly, but managed to get back to work. Because he had just returned to work, he ignored stomach pains because he was trying to get caught up on a project. He finally had to be rushed to the hospital and almost died because his appendix had burst and he had become septic. Whether he was going to live was up in the air for days.

He finally recuperated and returned home from the hospital, although he was still not entirely healed. He had to get up every few hours to take pain pills. Late one night when he got up to take medication, he found the kitchen of the house engulfed in flames! He woke everyone up and managed to scoop my brother out of his bedroom next to the kitchen before the flames reached him.

The fire trucks arrived quickly and more than 1/2 of the house was damaged. The house was burnt from the back bathroom, the laundry room, the kitchen, my brother’s bedroom, and all the way down the hallway up to the mantle of the fireplace in the living room where the fire damage had stopped. After the firemen put the fire out and surveyed the severe smoke damage, they were struck by one oddity…the smile of the Tiki god was glowing bright white. Everything around it was burnt or blackened by smoke, but the statue appeared to be untouched!

Our local newspaper did an article on this phenomenon and we were local celebrities for our 15 minutes of fame. My mother insisted the Tiki statue was bad luck. My father fell down the stairs and broke his leg. His appendix had burst and he’d almost died. And 1/2 the house burned down! My father had another take on the situation. The Tiki god was GOOD luck. When he’d fallen down the stairs, he could have broken his neck instead of his leg. When his appendix had burst, he could have gotten to the hospital too late and died. And if his appendix had not burst, he would not have gotten up in the middle of the night to get medication and the whole house, including his family, could have burned!

The statue remained a fixture in my parent’s house as long as my father lived. When he passed away ten years ago, my mom got rid of the statue, or so I thought…

Some of you may know that I have been dealing with the recent death of my mother. Cleaning out her house these past few weeks have been the saddest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. How does one begin to decide what to keep, what to give away and what to throw away? Cleaning the kitchen I found the grinder she used to make bologna salad with. Cleaning the bedrooms I tenderly sorted through pictures, mementos, costume jewelry and I not so tenderly threw away her clothes that had become threadbare and worn.

I had managed to finish cleaning most of the house except for the basement. I put that off until last. In a family like ours without any wealth in “things”, I could only expect to find in the basement “memories” not worth keeping, but too sad to throw away. All of the old Christmas decorations, the threadbare sheets, blankets, chenille bedspreads and curtains that my mother thought might “come in handy one day”, old televisions with rabbit ear antennas, 8 track tape recorders, posters from the 60s that had faded and crumbled with the moisture, and a whole lot of other worthless “junk” that would cause me further sadness. I was dreading cleaning it out! As a working mother with kiddos who I have to drive back and forth to doctor appointments, soccer practice, friend’s houses and such, I did not really have the extra time I needed to devote to this depressing task. Plus, I hated cleaning my OWN house and I resented the fact that this task lay ahead of me.

At work my husband called me frantic! The water heater had burst in my mother’s basement and there was 2 inches of water everyplace!!! I had no time to be bothered with yet another unpleasant task, I thought as I left work early to take care of the situation. As I opened my mother’s basement door, I could hear the water gushing, and see items floating freely in the water. “UGH!!!!” I thought, as I started to cry, overwhelmed by the task ahead of me. Now I not only had to clean, but I had to mop up the mess! When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I surveyed the damage…everything was dank, dripping wet and depressing. Then, a familiar face smiled out at me through the dampness…the Tiki statue! It was up on a shelf on a wall way across the room, but even through the darkness I could still see its smile! I stopped crying in amazement. It made me think. I finally realized that this was NOT bad luck, as my mother would have said, but GOOD luck, as my father would have said. With my mom’s basement flooded, her homeowner’s insurance company would pay to have it cleaned up! I called them and they sent over a cleaning crew right away. With everything ruined, it would have to be thrown away, not by ME, but by the company which would haul it all away. Suddenly the dismal vision of me standing in a foot of water and bagging after bag after bag of old, wet memories disappeared, replaced with a sense of giddiness! I don’t know why, but just the fact that this huge daunting task of cleaning her basement had been taken care of by this flood lightened my mood. Isn’t life strange?

Although some of our old stuff MAY have been salvageable, I knew it would just sit in my basement and become more junk for me, so I asked the clean up crew to clean it entirely because everything was “moldy from the water. They went in and scooped everything away and cleaned the basement spotlessly! The thing I saved from the basement was the Tiki god. Not that I “believe” in him, but I believe that sometimes luck is all in how incidents are perceived, and life is a whole lot less stressful if you can look at the lucky side of things! I know my spirits were lifted that day…